How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days
by savingswan
Summary: CS Modern AU: Based on the movie 'How To Lose A Guy In Ten Days.' Emma Swan, a brilliant magazine writer, runs into a former fling Killian Jones and decides to make his life a living hell for old times sake. Killian Jones, however, has other plans.


**A/N: Based on the movie 'How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days'. I twisted things up a little, because copying every scene straight from the movie would be oh so boring :). It's quite silly, I apologize.**

**I own nothing except my writing.  
Enjoy!**

* * *

There are three ways to find out if that guy across from you is a complete, utter capital F fool.

One, he thinks he's God's greatest gift on earth. Usually, extremely handsome and charming enough to attract _at least_ five different girls from across the room, all the while he's holding a glass stained with something so incredibly disgusting that it's strong enough to burn _both_ of your throats out.

He also happens to _know_ he's getting the attention, because he's eyeing every single one of those five girls back in a strategic game plan he made up and mastered sometime in college while he was still a sheep trying to pass for a lion.

Two, he happens to speaks like velvet. Like you're standing in Paris on a pretty balcony in a pretty dress with a glass of Moët in your hand as you look across the city and its dazzling lights. You feel like you're being lifted from his words, like he's guiding you to cloud nine and making your heart race to the latest pop tune you couldn't seem to stand.

He also knows _exactly_ what he's doing.

Three, when he speaks to you, you feel like you're the only person who matters. Like all the attention in the world has dropped in your lap and exploded like fireworks around you. He gazes into you, bores his eyes into your soul and dissects every part in your brain as much as he can muster. From your favorite cereal to the obsession you had of the _poster-on-a-wall-phase_ when you were only fourteen years old.

Killian Jones happened to check all of them.

_Go figure._

Emma Swan shifted from one leg to another, back and forth, forth and back. One could say that she was awkwardly trying to move her body to the overplayed song blaring from the speakers of the far too packed bar, not quite finding her footing just yet. _Or_, she had that familiar case of a too full bladder and needed a bathroom right now, _right _this second.

A sigh escaped her pink lips as she realized that she was doing her heels ( or her feet ) no favor, who suddenly seemed to be digging into her flesh, shooting sparks of pain right up her calves. Which wasn't the worst part, the bounce of her curls seemed to have lost their usual elastic.

She really_ did_ love her curls.

But apparently, those weren't her only problems.

And as if life couldn't get any worse, her stomach was right on the verge of betraying her.

( Needless to say, this wasn't quite her night. )

She wondered if she could duck her head and escape the tight confinement that comes with expensive cocktails and _let's-have-a-girls-night out_ dress, to bask in the chilly air and skip away from _his_ face in _that_ suit in _this_ particular moment.

Mary Margaret seemed to have other plans for her.

( She always did. )

"What is it?"

The blonde groaned.

Mary Margaret, who always seemed to want to know _exactly_ what was going on in her head. Emma didn't had to vocalize it, she didn't even had to _realize_ it. But the 5'6, pixie haired woman seemed to hold a crystal ball to all of her problems, like she had pulled out a chair with her delicate fingers and grazed one issue after issue, trying to decipher what _exactly_ the problem was, and _why_ she was feeling this way. Like her own personal Dr. Phil, Emma often joked. Free of charge except for the professional line that always seemed to blur into a much too intimate territory, which Mary Margaret had no qualms in crossing.

"Nothing."

Lie number one.

Her response was short and curt, and almost on the verge of sounding offended. Emma Swan, problems?! _Never!_

"I know you've been ignoring me for the past ten minutes and you won't stop doing— _that_." One delicate, but bossy finger pointed at Emma's feet.

"Doing what? I'm not doing anything!" She huffed, deliberately standing still, knowing that if she did things exactly right, she could win this round.

Mary Margaret was having none of it, however.

"Like you're about to break out with your fifteen minutes of fame in Happy Feet. _That's _what you're doing."

_Now_ Emma Swan was offended.

"Happy Feet happened to be a_ great_ movie." Lie number _two_, Emma had found herself sleeping half way throughout the movie with her carton of ice cream melted on her lap, leaving a wet spot on her leg where the drops had slid off. "You don't think I can make it in a movie as silly as Happy Feet? Or any movie, for that matter?" She retorted.

"I think you're trying to change the subject. I also think it's not working." Mary Margaret replied with equal amount of gruff, yet kept the tone of her voice light, but passive aggressive enough like an experienced teacher. Her emerald eyes seemed to be shining out something incredibly wicked as her lips, naked but with a sheer transparent gloss, were put into a tight lipped smile.

Emma could give up, and confess her discomfort. Or, she could deny that anything was wrong even if it meant losing her smallest toe.

She went for the second option.

( Naturally. )

As she looked around, frantic eyes suddenly searching for _him_, but founding none of his dark grey suit with a white shirt ( something she liked, unfortunately ) made her groan inwardly and left her debating if she should stay silent for a little while longer, wondering if the holes the woman next to her was boring into her skull were even worth it, _and_ if she could come up with something that was decent enough that could pass for a pathetic, but a passable excuse.

Instead, she found another pair of emerald eyes staring back at her.

Only this time, they were Ruby's.

"I see you're getting Mary Margaret's famous stink face. What did you do?"

The girl leaned in closer, and Emma could practically smell the margarita on her breath. But she'd rather take this and her taste of alcohol any day over than the unwavering fear Mary Margaret could induce with a single look.

"Absolutely nothing. Yet, Ms. Judgy over here seems to think I started a nuclear war by not telling her what's on my mind. Which, quite frankly, is none of her business."

One point for Emma Swan.

"Hmhm." Happened to be the only response she got.

Two points for Mary Margaret.

"Drinks?"

As Ruby desperately tried to lift the sullen ( and let's face it, hostile ) mood, both of the woman stayed silent. Mary Margaret seemed to wave her off, eyes silently glancing towards the back of Emma's head again, but instead now she looked almost guilty.

Emma, however, looked hard as steel. The wine in her hand left untouched for the past ten minutes as she sighed, obviously frustrated that she had lost her target.

But if there was one thing Emma Swan was good at, it was finding things. May it be people, their dirty laundry, or her tenth grade science paper, she's bound to find it.

She could just sweep the floor, start with the bar and end with the VIP lounge.

If he hadn't left yet.

He didn't.

In fact, somehow in the past minutes, while she was desperately trying to crawl away from having a heart-to-heart with Mary Margaret, he was staring right _at_ her. Smirking like the smug bastard he was, tongue darting out as he basked in the amusement of her not knowing he was watching her. Is this how it felt when he had no clue she found him first?

It was not like this was a game, of course not, but she _did_ found him _first_.

"Crap."

She ducked her head, eyes momentarily closing as she could practically _feel _his smirk growing. This was not how it was supposed to go, she was supposed to hold control over _him_, not the other way around.

She should have left ten damn minutes ago.

No, actually, she shouldn't have come at all.

"—What is it? You look like you just saw a ghost." Ruby spoke.

Emma suddenly seemed to realize the presence of the other two women next to her. She didn't quite know exactly what washed over her, but her heart seemed to start pounding louder, so fervent she could swear it grew tiny feet and ran right out of her chest like Usain Bolt.

"Nothing. Honestly, it's nothing." She shook her head, shoulders tensing.

"Oh, I see we're still stuck on that sore subject." Mary Margaret mused, a twinkle of mischief clouding her eyes.

And for once, Emma was stunned into silence. Her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for water, hanging on to a silent hope.

This was bad, really bad, like a disaster kind of bad.

"Does it happen to involve tall, dark, and handsome over there?" Ruby grinned with her lips coated in a sinful red, matching the dress she wore. "He's been eyeing you, you know." She said matter-of-factly as she tossed her raven hair over her shoulder. Her head, unfortunately, nudging into his direction.

Emma Swan happened to know girl code. She knew what this meant.

She had to walk over to him.

Fortunately, it was going to be over her dead body.

"Yeah, and like ten other billion girls in this room." She mumbled, eyes almost rolling into their casket.

_She still remembers him._

She still remembers the golden age of college, where the grass between her toes somehow had seemed sweeter than the other times. Where her laugh, vibrant and loud, shook without embarrassment in a packed cafeteria, her mouth open and her smile actually reaching her eyes this time.

It's where she had met _him_.

In a long line in the middle of the cafeteria.

They had lunch dates ever since, and made the habit of laughing the loudest. Be in the cafeteria, under the blazing sun in the spring, or the library— they had grown fond each other despite having no expectations. Until she found herself in his bed sprawled out under his arm, her heart panicking widely.

So she did what she did best and left, in the middle of the night, no less. No signs that she had ever been there except for the damp sweat left on his sheets and the stain of her lipstick on the glass that was still sitting on his table.

She avoided him for the rest of the semester, and escaped with scratched knees.

Lips pursed, she watched as he raised his glass to her, an eyebrow rising in recognition as he stayed put, leaving the decision entirely up to her.

She would have done just _fine_ without him putting on the heat on her.

So her feet, painful and pretty sure swollen, stalked forward towards him. The chatter in the background dimming into a slight murmur.

His grin, suddenly wolfish, only grew.


End file.
